His Best Friend's Wedding
by Chinese Bakery
Summary: "Everybody sees it." That's what Bobbi had said. "Anybody who's ever spent five minutes with you two can tell you're not 'just friends'." And yet, Jemma was about to get married to someone else.


"I love you. I'm completely and utterly in love with you. Please don't get married."

Fitz is horrified to feel his eyes well up with ten years worth of suppressed feelings –love, jealousy, bitterness and a treacherous sense of hope that survived all their ups and downs, all the times they held each other too long and too tight or almost kissed and laughed it away the next day.

"I– I don't understand," Jemma replies, her eyes wide with panic, and he can't help but wonder if she's really surprised that he loves her –or that he's finally saying it out loud.

"Don't you?" His voice is hoarse and full of pain and he feels completely, ridiculously bare.

It's late and he's heartbroken and desperate and, yes, a little drunk. If Bobbi hadn't just spent the past two hours convincing him to say something before it was too late, he would have kept his mouth shut and watched her get married to someone else, the same way he's watched her fall in and out of love with other men for the past ten years without ever trying to alter the course of events.

He would have clapped and cheered and held up his glass as he recited a carefully crafted speech congratulating his very best friend on her special day. And as the new spouses danced and laughed and celebrated, he would have disappeared wordlessly and numbed himself in alcohol or in another woman's arms. Probably both.

"Why do you– why would you even say that? Fitz, you're my best friend in the world!" she cries, and starts pacing across her room, clutching her throat as if she can't breathe. He can relate. He's had trouble breathing since the day she told him about the engagement.

Could she really _not_ have known?

 _Everybody sees it._ That's what Bobbi had said. _Anybody who's ever spent five minutes with you two can tell you're not 'just friends'._

"Yeah. And you're more than that, Jemma," he says, his voice breaking.

He tries to smile through the tears because it's only occurring to him now that this could be their last conversation. If it is, he doesn't want her to remember him like a blubbering mess.

The enormity of what he just did is hitting him slowly. With those three sentence, he's just warped the nature of their relationship forever. There will be no pretending now. He can't take it back –and he wouldn't, if he could.

"I don't know what to say," Jemma whimpers, and her distress is tearing him apart. He wants to brush her tears away the way he has every time another guy has made her cry since they were both teenagers, but he can't blow up their friendship with one breath and console her from the loss of her best friend with the next one.

"Say you'll think about it," he rasps. "Just– think about it. That's all I ask."

She nods, her eyes squeezed shut and her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. The next moment, she's in his arms, with her face tucked against his neck and her arms trapped between their bodies as he clenches her tight against him.

"Please don't marry him," he mutters against her hair, and hates himself for his bloody weakness.

* * *

"I don't know what to do," Jemma cries, for the dozenth time since she'd turned up on Daisy's doorstep unannounced in the dead of night.

Daisy grabs the bottle of wine and refills both their glasses before she takes her friend's hand. "I don't want to alarm you, but you have about 48 hours to make a decision. And I'm not sure what's the etiquette here, but if you're _not_ gonna marry him, it'd probably be best to let him know _before_ his parents settle in the front row."

" _Oh God_ ," Jemma groans, burying her face into her hands. "I swear, I had no idea."

Daisy tilts her head and makes a face. "Really?"

"Well, he never _said_ anything," Jemma huffs defensively, crossing her arms over her chest. How was she supposed to _guess_? After all this time?

Daisy snorts. "Honestly, the perma-heart-eyes should have been your first clue." She puts down her glass, her expression sobering. "Okay, let me ask you this. Have you ever been on good terms with one of his girlfriends?"

"Well, not really, but... Honestly, I've never found any of them particularly friendly."

Daisy bites her lip for a moment, then bursts into laughter. "No shit, Sherlock. I'm fairly certain every single one of them hated your guts with a fiery passion."

"Oh. _Oh_ ," Jemma repeats, frowning.

"Yep. But that's beside the point. Did you ever like one of them? Thought they were good enough for our darling Fitzy?"

Jemma considers the question, her frown deepening as she reviews her best friend's dating history with a critical eye.

"Thought so," Daisy sing-songs.

"That doesn't mean–"

"Maybe not," Daisy concedes. "But did you really never consider it? Never let your mind wander? Never wondered what he was worth in the sack?" she asks, wiggling her eyebrows.

Let her mind wander? What kind of question is that? Of course, it _wanders_. A girl can't be in complete control of her mind every moment of every day for an entire _decade_. There are _moments_ and _slips_ and _extenuating circumstances_. Things he says or does, unexpectedly tender looks and silences that stretch too long. Surely, that's nothing out of the ordinary between close friends?

"I–" Jemma freezes, then tries to avert her face as she feels her cheeks heat up. It's too late– Daisy's chuckling again, only sobering when she takes in Jemma's wounded expression.

"Oh, honey, I'm not laughing at you. I just want you to be happy."

"I thought you _liked_ him," Jemma notes, belatedly piqued, as she twists her engagement ring around her finger.

"Hey, it's not like I actively dislike him," Daisy shrugs. "I don't want to influence your decision one way or another, but I'd be lying if I said I never hoped for you two to get your bullcrap together."

They drink in silence for a few moments, lost in thoughts, until Jemma suddenly tenses up.

"What if it's too late?" she whispers, and the thought wraps around her chest like a vise. "We can't undo the past ten years. Maybe we missed our window of opportunity."

"You're such a romantic, Simmons," Daisy grins.

Jemma looks at her friend with wide, heart-stricken eyes. Considering the possibility, voicing it out loud... It _is_ a decision, isn't it?

"I don't think I can marry him," she says before the first sob shakes her chest.

"I know," Daisy says softly, and holds Jemma against her chest, stroking her back soothingly, as she cries herself out for the second time that night.

* * *

She tells her fiancé the next day, and it's the hardest thing she's ever had to do. At first, he's not really listening.

"It's just wedding jitters," he tells her. "Everybody feels this way, days before their wedding."

But it's not, and he doesn't. She's spent most of the previous night reflecting on their relationship. Being with him is easy, it's comfortable. He doesn't challenge her and he doesn't drive her mad. He doesn't complement her, either. He's the kind of man her father is, a patriarch in the making, reassuring and dependable. A good man, just not the one she needs.

She wonders how she ever got so out of touch with her own feelings.

When she finally mentions Fitz –she was hoping to avoid that, but can't find a way around it– he's as angry and devastated as one would expect. Unpleasant words are pronounced, words she feels she deserves. He won't believe that nothing has happened yet, that she hasn't been cheating on him the entire time.

"People kept warning me about you two," he says. "You didn't make much of an effort to hide."

She vehemently denies an affair, but he can't hear that yet. He's in pain, and she hates it, but she can't fathom any way out of this without hurting someone she cares about.

She leaves her beautiful engagement ring on the dresser, and tries not to think about the wedding band she'll never get to wear.

When she finally leaves his apartment, she's emotionally exhausted. She takes a taxi home, feeling too frazzled to take the bus and face judgmental strangers. Surely it's written all over her face, that she all but left he fiancé at the altar for another man.

The moment she gets home, she drops to the couch and falls asleep in a matter of minutes. 'It's just a little nap', she tells herself as she sinks into sleep. A little energy boost before she initiates another life-changing conversation.

* * *

It's late in the evening when Fitz's doorbell rings and at this point, he expects it to be anyone but her.

He's spent the past 20-odd hours in a state of suspension, hungover and lovesick, waiting for the inevitable crash. Waiting for her to call. For the cosmos to send him a sign. Just _waiting_.

For hours now, he's been convinced he's made a terrible mistake, that he's annihilated their relationship and it was all for nothing. She's getting married and there's nothing he can do but stand idly by and keep his mouth shut. He's already said too damn much.

The only unknown at this point is whether they can be friends again, and if he even wants that. Bobbi keeps telling him he needs to either move forward or move on, and perhaps she's not wrong –as much as he loves Jemma, he'd really rather skip the honeymoon updates, the baby pictures and the tales of their wine tasting vacations. Or whatever it is guys like _him_ do for fun.

Losing her once was enough, he couldn't possibly stand to lose her over and over for years to come. _But you never had her_ , he keeps reminding himself. That little detail always gets conveniently forgotten.

When he opens the door, she's there, pale and anxious with puffy eyes and worry lines marring her forehead. She looks sad and broken. Funny how they've always been so in sync.

"Hi," she says, trying to force a smile, but her lips are trembling and she looks like she might cry. By the look of her, she's done quite a bit of that already, and he hates that it's because of him. He hates even more the tiny, bitter part of himself that feels vindicated by her tears.

"You look like hell." He meant to say it jokingly but he sounds too tired and too _done_ to communicate any hint of humor.

"Well, you don't look so hot yourself," Jemma replies impatiently, biting her lip. She studies his face for a few moments, biting her lip, as his discomfort grows.

"What do you want, Jemma?

"Can I come in?" she asks pointedly, and he's tempted to say no, but can't bring himself to. He merely opens the door wider, and gets out of her way. He feels so restless with her in his space that his hands won't stop moving –they're combing through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck, scratching his nose.

Jemma locks her eyes with his and takes a deep breath before she speaks again. "I thought about what you said and I– maybe we should... talk about it."

Here it comes. The gentle, awkward let down he was hoping to avoid.

"There's nothing to discuss, Jemma," he says coldly, and this time, he can't stop himself from pacing across the room, hoping he'll breathe easier when she's not so damn near, but she doesn't let him.

"Maybe there is," she says softly, and grabs his hand before he can scamper away.

Her touch is electric. They've held hands hundreds of times before –thousands, maybe– but it never felt this dangerous before. He stares at their joined hands because he can't look at her. He might be a coward, but there's only so much he can take.

"I broke up with him," she whispers, her voice so thin he can barely make out the words, and even though he does, he can't bring himself to believe he's heard her correctly.

"You _what_?" he asks, thinking maybe his heart has stopped beating. He feels so very still.

"You heard me," she says tightly. "I'm not getting married."

His heart picks up again then, craggy and frantic, and he can't think over the sound of blood rushing to his ears. There are words he should say and questions he should ask but his mind is blank and his body's a pulsing, shaking mess.

"Why?" he finally croaks, and it's not really what he wants to know, but it's close enough.

"Because–" She sighs and it turns into a shiver. She hasn't let go of his hand yet and it's her turn to peak at their now entwined fingers so she can avoid his inquisitive eyes.  
"Because I never want to be without you."

For one moment, he feels a brain-melting, inextinguishable joy, before the exact words she used register and his heart breaks all over again. She didn't want to be without him before either. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't _change_ anything.

Not wanting to be without someone is not the same thing as wanting to be _with_ someone.

"That's not enough Jemma," he says, and tries not to choke on it. "I can't go back to the way things were."

"Me neither," she breathes, and this time the uptick of her mouth does resemble a smile.

She pulls on his hand until they're invading each other's space and he can feel her warm breath on his chin. Their foreheads are almost touching, and there's no uncertainty in her eyes when their gazes meet again, so close he can barely see. Quite the contrary, it's a look he's learned to fear –the one Jemma sports when she won't be denied.

There's a split second of panic right before their lips meet, because there's no telling how their give and take will translate into the physical. It would be the biggest cosmic jokes of all, wouldn't it? Years of pining and misery, a vital friendship torn apart to make way for a lukewarm and unsatisfying relationship...

But the moment they touch, that train of thought is blown away.

He meant for their first kiss to be tentative and light –and it is, for the first few seconds. But from the moments his tongue brushes the seam of her lips, all that sweetness turns to heat and urgency and fiery _want._

Her hands are on his neck, her fingers grazing his stubbled cheeks, as if to keep him here. She makes a sound against his lips, something between a sigh and a moan, and it tears him inside out. There's nothing he's ever wanted as much as being the person who makes that sound escape from Jemma Simmons' throat. His fingers dip under the hem of her shirt, just to feel the softness of her skin, and she does it again.

When she sucks his bottom lip into her mouth, he gasps– he's _this_ close to lose his mind and to back her up into the couch so they can explore this astonishing new side to their relationship some more, rather than stopping the way he knows he should.

"Jemma. Jemma wait," he pants against her mouth. "We can't. It's too soon."

"I know," she says, equally breathless, and rests her forehead against his.

"What happens now?" He kisses her once more, chastely this time. He can barely believes he's allowed to do that now, to hold her and taste her lips and runs his fingers through her hair, after years of squashing all those very impulses.

"Now... we adjust," she suggests, reading his mind, with a grin he can't help but mirror.

"You're not going to change your mind, are you?" he asks jokingly, and he wonders if she can quantify the genuine, immediate fear underneath the humorous pretense.

"Ugh, Fitz," she says, rolling her eyes as she sags against his chest. "I just cancelled my wedding. How many grand gestures are you going to need?"

* * *

He's with her when she calls her parents to tell them, and he holds her hand the entire time. Unsurprisingly, that conversation goes horribly wrong, and it's such a relief to have him by her side. He helps her to send back all the presents and to stamp the dozens of thank you-slash-apology letters she has to write. The next few weeks are a blur of obligations and contrition and through it all, he's the one that keeps her sane.

An entire month passes before her fiancé asks to see her to talk things through over dinner. She can tell Fitz is seething with jealousy, but he doesn't say anything about it but words of support and understanding. When she comes home, she's finally at peace. That night, she feels free to tell him that she's in love with him, and probably has been for a very long time.

She does get married, eventually.

The wedding isn't nearly as fancy as the one that didn't happen. There's only half as many guests and the entire thing has a rustic feel that her former almost-in-laws would never have tolerated. Her dress is more cute than sophisticated and her hair isn't pulled into a fancy bun, but the groom looks at her with adoring eyes even when she stumbles through her vows and cries during most of his, when, before all their family and friends, he tells the story of two achingly shy teenagers who fell in love long before they were ready for it, and spent the next decade figuring out what to do with all those feelings.

Everybody keeps asking what it feels like to marry her best friend, but she has no answer for them –she's simply marrying the love of her life.


End file.
